


Under the Spanish Sun

by cassiopeia221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Jealous John, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Swimming Pools, Undercover, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2019-09-20 06:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17017251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeia221B/pseuds/cassiopeia221B
Summary: Sherlock’s been assigned to go undercover in Spain, where he's to stay at one of the most luxurious hotels and keep an eye on his client's uncle. The kind of a boring case he would never take if John didn’t convince him they desperately need the ton of money their client offers. Little does John know, not only he is going too, he's got to play a role...





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock hasn't said a word ever since the client arrived but his expression speaks for himself. He'd rather be anywhere else. The young man sitting opposite him appears to be every bit of dull and dreary and to make it even worse, the story he's come to tell couldn't be less entertaining...

“In short, you think your uncle plans to get revenge on your family because your father fired him. Correct?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock gives a long exasperated sigh. “Boring.”

“B-but... You haven't even heard all of it.”

“There's  _more_?” Sherlock drawls. “You talked for sixty seven seconds, I thought you were finished.”

The client shakes his head, disregarding Sherlock's snide comments. “My uncle's up to _something_ , Mr. Holmes. And I need your help to prove it.” He breaks the eye contact for a split of a moment then leans forward, lowering his voice as he speaks. “I don't know what _exactly_ he's planning, but whatever it is, I'd wager he means to ruin everything me and my father worked so hard to achieve. Take a moment to imagine what a disaster that would be. I cannot let that happen.”

The frown on Sherlock's face deepens. “I fail to see what part _I_ am supposed to be playing in this petty drama of yours.”

“Uncle's on a flight to Spain as we speak. And _I_ need  _you_ to follow,” the client says, leaning back in the chair. “I know at which hotel he's staying. Seven days, that's all I ask. Keep an eye on him. Whatever his intentions are, I _must_ now. And if anything suspicious happens... you intervene.”

Sherlock takes a moment to reply, trying not to burst into a guffaw that would, no doubt, come off sounding derisive. “That's the most ludicrous request I've ever received. Why don't you go yourself?”

“How could I? I need someone to spy on him in _secret_. Isn't that what private detectives are for?”

 _Private detectives_. Sherlock doesn't feel like laughing anymore. “Can't help, sorry,” he retorts, throwing daggers at the man in front of him. “First of all, it's _consulting_ detective. Second of all, I am not even remotely interested in-”

“I'll pay, of course. Regardless of results. A pretty large sum, I dare to say.”

At those words, John's head all of a sudden peeks from behind the kitchen door. “Sherlock? A moment please?”

Sherlock takes a quick glance at him, not surprised that he has been listening. Doesn't move an inch though.

“Sherlock. Kitchen. _Now_.”

Whether John intended it to sound like an order or not, Sherlock very quickly changes his mind about not moving and hurries to stride across the room. John can make an impression even while washing dishes, apparently.

Without a preface, John tosses the dishcloth on the counter, then crosses his arms. “Take the case.”

“Wh-why would I?”

“He's rich and we're broke. Do the maths, genius.”

“Ah, I see. Does _everything_ in the world revolve around money?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Damn, John,” Sherlock groans. “You've heard every word. It's barely a _two_. I've never sunk as low as _two_.”

John glowers at him like he's just gone mad. “The guy wants you to spend a week in Spain _and_ offers a huge amount of money for doing pretty much _nothing at all_ and you're hesitating?!”

“He can't even tell the difference between _private_ and _consulting_. That's embarrassing.”

“Er...excuse me?”

In perfect unison, John and Sherlock's heads snap to look at the client, who has just raised up and entered the room. A bit abashed, after having witnessed them squabbling.

“I thought you'd like to know -” he pulls out a pen and a small notebook from his pocket, quickly scribbles something inside, then takes a step toward Sherlock, holding it open for him and John to see. “ _This_ is the kind of a sum I had in mind.”

John's eyes widen in sheer disbelief. Sherlock, on the other hand, looks only mildly intrigued. Still... intrigued nonetheless. And it's not like he can argue with the look that John's just given him.

“ _Fine_ ,” he rolls his eyes, surrendering at last. “You win.”

For the first time, the client gives a small, pleased smile. “ _Fantastic_. You have no idea how grateful I am, Mr. Holmes. I'll even pay your stay if I must.”

“Now, _that_ won't be necessary.”

John frowns, failing to understand why on earth would Sherlock refuse, but seeing as how he has already shown the client out and retired into his bedroom, John decides not to raise an objection. All that matters is that Sherlock has taken the case.

Several minutes later, however, John kind of begins to regret that he has. Just the thought of Sherlock all by himself somewhere nice and hot with swimming pools and cocktails, surrounded by dozens of scarcely dressed, tanned people, every day for a whole damn week, people that will undoubtedly _flirt_ with him because who _wouldn’t..._ John could as well turn green with jealousy. Persuading Sherlock to work on this case might not have been such a brilliant idea after all.

Sherlock isn't of a much different opinion. Once he emerges from the bedroom again, he's carrying not only a small bag in his hand but a sour expression upon his face. As he walks by John, he scowls even more as if discontent with something, then gives John a confused look. “Why are you not packed yet?”

John blinks at him, twice, thrice, before finally blurting out ' _what?'._ Sherlock allows himself a wry smirk, then glances at his phone, announcing that John has exactly seventeen minutes to pack before the cab arrives. Except John is still staring and staring, failing to put two and two together.

“I am... coming... with _you_?”

“Obviously.”

John swallows, narrows his eyes as if to say ‘ _the hell is going on_ ’ but seems to be too muddled to utter the words. Seeing that he has been rendered speechless, Sherlock chuckles and takes a step closer toward him.

“Come now, John. You didn’t think I would leave without you, did you?”

“Actually, yes, I did.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I need you.”

“What... _for_?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Think, John. I’d draw much more attention if I were alone. A single man staying in one of the most luxurious hotels all by himself? How very inconspicuous. I am sure the guy I am supposed to be stalking or whatever wouldn’t suspect me of monitoring his activities.”

“Right. Because two blokes staying in the same room...that’s not going to draw any attention at all,” John snorts.

“Of course not. Everyone will assume that we are a couple.”

“Exactly!”

“Exactly.”

John opens his mouth to retort, then suddenly... freezes. “Wait...”

Just as John finally starts to comprehend, a shy little smile crosses Sherlock’s face.

“You  _want_  people to think we’re a couple.  _You_  want  _me_  to... to pretend that I am your...  _boyfriend_?” John can practically feel his cheeks emanating heat but he’s far too bewildered to care that Sherlock can see him blushing.

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Too much trouble? Hell, Sherlock, you can’t just... you know. You could have, I don’t know,  _asked_ first.”

Sherlock’s face ever so slightly saddens. He seems to be genuinely disappointed with John’s response. “Alright, then. I understand... Well, I can always ask someone else-”

“Now hold on a second,” John cuts him off, lifting a finger and almost pressing it to Sherlock’s lips as if to shush him. The mere thought of someone other than himself playing Sherlock’s partner is all the incentive he needs to skip the part where he attempts to teach Sherlock about polite manners and moves on to just saying yes to whatever he proposes. 

“I did not say I am not going.”

“And are you?”

John lets out but a sigh, gazing at Sherlock for long ten seconds before finally offering a reply. He couldn’t say no to those puppy eyes even if he wanted to and he really,  _really_ does not want to. “Yeah, of course I am,” he nods at last, ”I’d be a bloody fool if I declined to stay at a luxurious hotel in the heart of a Spanish paradise. Especially since _I_ tried to convince you to take the case in the first place.”

A smile of relief plays on Sherlock’s lips. “Good. Because I was bluffing. You think I’d  _ever_  willingly spend  _seven_  days in the same room with anyone but you? Nonsense.”

At that, John titters, shaking his head in amusement. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Which is funny, considering that we were bickering just an hour ago.”

“It's time to get used to the nice me, I guess... Now that we're, well... boyfriends,” Sherlock quips and with an awkward smile, heads for the door. “I’ll wait for you outside,” he adds before he rushes down the stairs, leaving behind an utterly flummoxed and profusely blushing John.


	2. Chapter 2

“So... what exactly is your plan?” John asks once after the car finally moves down the road and toward Heathrow.

“You’ve managed to pack just under five minutes. Impressive.”

John frowns at Sherlock.  _Is he even listening?_  Probably not. His eyes are glued to the screen of his phone.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, don’t you think we should discuss this?”

“Discuss what?”

John purses his lips, throwing a glance at the cabbie as if to check if he can hear them. With a sigh, he leans closer to Sherlock, his voice barely audible. “ _The case_.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Why did you have to conspiratorially whisper it to my ear, John, if all that you wanted to say was...  _the case_.”

 _Typical_. John playfully nudges Sherlock’s arm before he leans back in his seat, feigning annoyance. “Shut up, you  _know_  what I mean.”

“But the cabbie doesn’t,” Sherlock snickers.

“Now, seriously, Sherlock,” John nudges him again, trying to stifle his giggles and keep his voice low. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

“Of course I have. Don’t you know me, John?”

“I do, that’s why I am asking.”

At last, Sherlock puts down the phone to look at John instead. His voice is oddly soft and somewhat reassuring even. “Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to participate in anything you'd deem uncomfortable. We don’t even have to hold hands. If... you don’t want to.” Sherlock clears his throat, lowering his eyes as if to avoid John’s gaze. A faint touch of pink tints his cheeks.

“I wouldn’t mind holding hands,” John blurts out despite himself but immediately regrets the choice of words. Fortunately, he manages to collect himself fairly quickly. “I mean... I mean, for a case.”

“For a case. Of course. It’s all for a... case,” Sherlock forces a smile that appears to be almost wistful but John decides to brush it off and pretend it’s just his mind playing tricks at him.  _Sherlock doesn’t_   _feel that way._

“Right. What happens in Spain stays in Spain.”

“Yup,” Sherlock nods, popping the p at the end, then returns to his phone as if they didn’t just have one of the most awkward conversations ever.

Neither him nor John say much for the rest of the ride, barely a word during the flight. It’s not until they arrive at the hotel that John finally breaks the ever so heavy silence.

His mouth falls open at the magnificent sight in front of him. To say the hotel where they're supposed to spend the following week looks impressive would be an understatement.

“Jesus, can we even afford this?” John gasps. “What am I saying, of  _course_  we can’t afford this. Do remind me, Sherlock, why didn't you let the client pay our stay? Who the hell is going to anyway?” By now, they’ve already reached the front door, which Sherlock not only gallantly holds open for John but he does so with a smile. Thank God, he must have already forgotten about the dreadfully embarrassing cab ride. Or so it seems.

“I could get used to this,” John admits as he walks through, Sherlock right at his heels. “But you still didn’t answer my question.”

“Mycroft.”

John comes to a freezing halt, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. “ _Mycroft?_  Why would Mycroft  _ever_ -”

“I didn't let the client pay our stay because as soon as he made the offer I imagined what Mycroft's reaction to us going undercover as a couple would be and I wanted to test if my prediction was right. It was. He had a laughing fit and swore he’ll pay all of our expenses if we, I quote,  _endure an entire week without going mad_ , which he one hundred percent believes we won’t. I can't wait to prove him wrong.”

“Wait, _wait_. You not only decided that we'd be going together as a couple when the client made the offer, you  _knew_ I wouldn't be against  _and_ in the same time thought of informing Mycroft about it? Five seconds prior to that you didn't want to go at all!”

“I am an exceptionally fast thinker, John.”

John's brow furrows as he takes a moment to contemplate Sherlock's plan. “So... we get to spend a whole week in Spain  _and_ we get to piss off your brother... What’s next? Free food? Hold on, it  _is_  free,” John smirks, then resumes walking towards the reception desk. Sherlock has to gather every single bit of control he possesses so he doesn’t burst into giggles right in the middle of the lobby.

Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock addresses the receptionist in what sounds like nearly perfect Spanish, but doesn’t dare to question him in front of her. He should  _know_  his  _boyfriend_  can speak Spanish. And it most definitely  _shouldn’t_  be that arousing. Once the receptionist gives Sherlock the key card, and John realises that he should stop staring at Sherlock’s lips, they head for the elevator, each of them carrying a bag in one hand, their free hands awkwardly brushing each other as they walk. John begins to wonder if he should just grab Sherlock’s hand but then again... they’re waiting for an elevator. Nobody does that. Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock is in exactly the same dilemma.

They both breathe a sigh of relief when the elevator arrives, because few more seconds and one of them would give in and  _go for it_  and people would immediately figure that they’ve never actually held hands before.

“I don’t think we’re fooling anyone,” John mutters, once after they are safely inside and thankfully, all alone.

“Relax. We’re doing fine,” Sherlock replies, pressing the button with the number twelve on it. “I think.”

“Are we?”

“Well, we can always try harder. But I doubt you’d agree to _that_.”

John doesn’t have to ask what that implies. His heart starts racing at the mere thought. “You’re talking about...  _kissing_.”

“Yup.”

John wets his lips. He can practically feel Sherlock’s intense gaze, but he doesn’t dare to turn and meet his eyes. The concept of kissing Sherlock is... terrifying. In all the best ways John can imagine. He’s been longing for Sherlock ever since the day they met and now... now he might as well get a chance to  _kiss_  him. Suddenly, he feels kind of dizzy and certainly not because the elevator’s strangely small, almost too small to fit more than two people. And just like that, John speaks before he thinks.

“I agree.”

Sherlock looks positively shocked. “You....  _do_?”

“Yeah, a kiss or two for a case? No problem.” John tries to sound casual, but his voice betrays him. Not just his voice, really, he tries to ignore the shivers crawling down his spine but to no avail. It's like his body has decided to act on its own in anticipation of what the next seven days are going to be like. He's just agreed to kiss Sherlock after all.

“But that’s as far as I am willing to go,” he adds quickly, a mock-serious expression on his face. A well meant attempt to lighten up the atmosphere.

Sherlock quirks his eyebrow. “Where else could we go?“

“Well, we could always pretend we’re having sex in the elevator,” John quips but only after saying that out loud he realises what a mistake he’s made. Sherlock tilts his head, blinks at him bemusedly, looking horrified. Or intrigued. John can’t tell.

“Sex... in the... elevator?

“Well, um, you know,” John starts, but there’s no way out of this. He can only make it worse. “You and me, alone in the elevator. Two people.... alone... Sex. Against the-the-the... wall?” He does make it worse. And in turn... feels absolutely mortified.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, clearly expecting  _some_  sort of explanation. “People have  _sex_... in  _elevators_? What if the door suddenly opens?”

Just as John is about to make it possibly even more embarrassing, precisely  _that_  happens and he couldn’t be more grateful. “Well, we’ll never know, will we?” he titters _,_ storming through the door.

Sherlock stares after him for a few moments, then pulls out his phone from the pocket. “Siri...”


	3. Chapter 3

John can hear Sherlock mumbling something to his phone, but he's walking a little too far in front of him to discern any words and doesn’t really feel like slowing down. The prospect of locking lips with Sherlock has messed up with his head so much he ended up humiliating himself and now can barely imagine looking into his eyes without turning red.

“Er, John?”

Sherlock’s voice slightly echoes through the hallway.

“You’ve missed our door.”

Confused, John turns to look at Sherlock, only to realise that he was so buried in his thoughts he completely forgot to watch where he was going.

The first thing John notices once reaching the door is the number of their room. “222?  _Seriously_?” Almost feels like he’s being pranked.

“Why, yes, 221 was already taken,” Sherlock says with an amused smile, then takes out the keycard from his pocket and proceeds to unlock the door. “Shall we?”

“Well, there’s no use of us loitering around, is there?” John utters, taking a step over the threshold. As soon as he walks further into the room, he finds himself unreservedly mesmerised. The suite appears to be as opulent as the rest of the hotel but in the best possible sense. From the huge, plush sofa residing in front of what must be the largest TV John has ever seen, to the beautiful sea view behind the window wall... he can easily envision himself spending not a week, but an entire month in such a place. That is, only if Sherlock keeps him company, of course.

“Nice, isn’t it?” 

John was so absorbed in his fantasy he didn’t even notice that Sherlock had approached him. He throws a glance at him then beckons toward the monumental window.

“Nice?  _Nice_  doesn’t even begin to cover it, Sherlock. It looks  _incredible_.”

“Mhm. And you haven’t even seen the bedroom yet.”

“The bed-? Oh.... The  _bedroom_.” John draws a sharp breath. It hasn’t occurred to him until now. Or maybe it has, he just tried to push the thought away, as far as possible in fear of being overwhelmed by what it signifies.  _They’ll have to sleep in the same bed._

Just as the thought crosses his mind, Sherlock breaks the silence that has descended. “The bed's big enough, you won't even notice you’re lying next to me. In case you were wondering. Then again,” he purses his lips, a bit anxiously it seems. “I might as well sleep on the sofa if the idea of sharing a bed with me... bothers you.”

“Why... why would it bother me?” John's voice quavers, because God, it’s almost like Sherlock just read his mind but in the same time completely misinterpreted his thoughts, because sleeping next to him? Would most certainly not bother John in the slightest. Right opposite.

“I don’t know. I thought it would,” Sherlock shrugs, smiling somewhat apologetically.

“No, no,” John shakes his head, perhaps a bit more vigorously than he intended. “Sherlock, none of us is going to sleep on the sofa, alright? We’re adults. We can handle this like adults.”

John hesitates for a moment, as if contemplating something, then finally, his lips curl into a little smile. “And besides... we’re supposed to be a couple, are we not?” This time he makes sure to choose his words carefully. After all, he’s had enough of embarrassment for a day. A week, really. Much to his relief, Sherlock giggles at his remark, finally easing the tension.

“All right, then. You check the rest of the suite, while I change into something more comfortable. And I suggest you do the same. We can’t walk around wearing three layers of clothes and whatnot. Remember, we have to  _fit in_.”

John looks him up and down, then smirks. “You look... fine to me.”  _Fine_  wasn’t exactly the first word that came to John’s mind but to say  _hot, sexy_  and  _gorgeous_  would almost definitely be a bit too bold of John, especially after he's just barely managed the save the situation.

“Oh... interesting,” Sherlock’s face suddenly lightens up.

“Oh? Oh what?”

“Are you by any chance practicing flirting with me?” Sherlock smiles, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

John blinks at him. “ _Flirting_? I wasn’t-I mean-”

“Have no worries, John. I don’t mind. In fact, I  _encourage_  you to.”

“You encourage me to... flirt with you?”

“Precisely,” Sherlock nods, then takes a small step forward to shorten the gap between them. “Go on. Flirt with me. We have to make the best possible impression.”

John stares at him for solid five seconds then bursts into a laugh. “Sherlock, it doesn’t work like that. I can’t just... say something like that on  _cue_.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t have any effect whatsoever. We can’t talk to each other like we’re mechanically reciting lines, Sherlock. It has to come naturally, on the spur of the moment.”

“Hm,” Sherlock pouts. “Fair enough... I suppose you were right, more than I was willing to admit. What you said in the elevator. We really haven’t been a very convincing couple so far.”

“No... No, I am afraid not.”

”Well then, I guess we have to go out tonight and... start anew,” Sherlock suggests. “There’s a fancy restaurant on the first floor. How about... a romantic dinner?”

John grins. “Not that I don’t appreciate the idea of having a  _romantic_ dinner with you, but aren’t we, first of all, supposed to be keeping an eye on the client's uncle?” John doesn't even try to sound judgemental. He, too, almost forgot why they'd  _actually_ come to Spain.

Sherlock’s smile but widens though. “What makes you think he’s not going to be there?”

At that, John snickers, shouldn't have had any doubts. Because  _of course_   the man’s going to be there. Sherlock is always two steps ahead...


	4. Chapter 4

The restaurant Sherlock has taken John to is nothing short of glamorous. Could be less crammed, John thinks, but at least looks cosy enough to enjoy a calm, quiet dinner. Or not. Depends on Sherlock. 

 _Sherlock_... John looks at him from the corner of his eye. He seems to be brooding, most likely deducing everyone as they make their way across the room.

“See the man on the far right? Sherlock pipes up, but his voice is barely above a whisper. “Blue shirt, hideous beard, coquetting with the tall blonde. That is our man.”

“And I suppose our table is the one in the corner, next to theirs.”

“Yes. May I take your hand?”

John's eyebrows fly up at Sherlock's unexpected request, but this time, he doesn’t hesitate. At least not long enough to miss his chance. Instead of simply letting Sherlock take the charge though, he carefully slips his hand into Sherlock’s, intertwining their fingers. He can hear Sherlock take a long shaky breath, he clearly didn’t expect John to make the first move. Truth be told, John himself didn’t expect it. And in turn, feels like a teenage boy again. It’s kind of ridiculous, he thinks, he  _feels_  ridiculous. Ridiculously in love.

John tried, he really did try to suppress a smile, anxious that he might look like an idiot if he stares at Sherlock with such a smitten grin plastered on his face, but damn _._  Sherlock’s hand is  _soft_ and he’s  _holding_  it and suddenly, Sherlock smiles right back and... God, John is  _completely_  gone on him.

And the feeling only grows stronger once they reach the table and Sherlock gently brushes the back of John’s hand with his thumb just before letting go and taking the seat opposite him.  _Must have been by an accident_ , John thinks, because why would Sherlock do that? Such a small display of affection, nobody saw it anyway. Unless Sherlock didn’t do it for the audience... no,  _impossible_. John shakes his head, as if to get rid of those thoughts. Sherlock would never-

“John? Everything okay?”

“Huh?” John blinks, realising he must have zoned out for a moment.

Sherlock looks mildly concerned. “Your face suddenly... fell.”

“No, I am fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Er... yes,” John gives a stiff nod. Luckily, a waitress soon arrives, putting a couple of menus on the table and thus giving John a good enough reason to change the subject.

“Jesus,” he gasps in astonishment as he begins to skim through the exclusive menu. “I am  _so_  glad you have a rich brother that has zero faith in our relationship,” he utters under his breath. 

“Mhm. Do me a favour and pick something so outrageously expensive it will make Mycroft’s head spin.”

John sniggers at that, but then notices that Sherlock hasn’t even glanced at the menu yet and his face scrunches into a frown. “You’re eating too.”

“I am not hungry.”

“Am I supposed to eat all by myself? That’s not very  _romantic_ ,” John chuckles, sounding amused, rather than annoyed.

A beat. Sherlock lets out a small sigh, then smiles fondly, as if to signalise he’s resigning. “Fine. I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Hold on. You want  _me_  to order the food? Do you realise that the only thing I can say in Spanish is  _gracias?_ ” John tilts his head and as he does, the most endearing smile splits his face.

Sherlock takes a moment to savour that smile, then smirks, leaning forward in his seat. “Such a shame. I would  _love_  to hear you speak Spanish.”

John quirks an eyebrow. Is Sherlock teasing him now? Better make sure, John decides. Mirroring Sherlock, he leans across the table, his voice descending into a husky whisper. “Are you  _flirting_  with me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s cheeks turn crimson. “Bad timing?”

“Not at all,” John bites his lip. “This is  _exactly_  what I was talking about.”

John thinks for a moment before he, unbeknownst to Sherlock, takes off one of his shoes and ever so slowly caresses up and down Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock’s breath hitches at that, but other than that, he seems to be almost perfectly relaxed. At least on the outside.

“Well, this is...  _new_ ,” he squirms which almost makes John stop in fear that he has taken it too far, but Sherlock has only shifted forward on the chair. John has to wonder if Sherlock is too getting chills because he most certainly is. This has to be the most daring thing he’s ever done and to his relief, Sherlock not only doesn’t seem to mind, he seems to be actually... enjoying it? John doesn’t get to ask, however, he’s interrupted by the waitress that’s just showed up to take their orders. Flushing, John immediately withdraws his foot and throws an embarrassed look at Sherlock, practically begging him to say something,  _anything_. Fortunately enough, Sherlock comprehends, easily switches to Spanish and places the order. With a smile, the waitress takes a few notes but it's only after she walks away that John collects himself again.

“Now, that was... an experience.”

“An  _experience_?”

John chortles, dropping his voice. “Let’s just say that playing footsie under the table with you in a bloody expensive Spanish restaurant is not something that happens to me every day,” he giggles and Sherlock along with him. “What did you order again?”

“Vegetable paella and a bottle of red wine.”

“Wait. How did you know I-”

“You were eyeing that particular picture in the menu for at least ten seconds before you moved onto another which you merely frowned upon. And besides, we’ve been living together for over two years, I kind of know your tastes by now.”

John does manage to bite his tongue before he sayssomething recklessly stupid, something akin to  _God, I love you_ perhaps,but he absolutely cannot stop himself from smiling like a loon at Sherlock. For the time being, he doesn’t care to hide, at least not while he is  _supposed_  to look enamoured anyway.

That being said, he and Sherlock quickly and surprisingly effortlessly become immersed in, not only the most delicious food but also in an extremely flirty conversation and fail to notice that the man they were supposed to be keeping an eye on has already left. John doesn’t even realise that they’ve essentially botched up their job until he and Sherlock retreat to their room...


	5. Chapter 5

John has already changed into the sleepwear and got into bed but trying to focus on anything other than the notion of Sherlock currently showering in the bathroom seems to be absolutely futile. As it happens, Sherlock steps out of the bathroom just as this very vivid image pops into John’s mind and...  _fuck_ , John curses in his head. Sherlock has nonchalantly walked into the room wearing only a towel loosely wrapped around his waist and as if that wasn’t enough, he runs his fingers through his semi-wet curls, reducing John to a proper mess. John is very well aware that he is gawking at Sherlock, but hell, what  _if_  he is doing all this on purpose? After everything that has happened in the restaurant, John simply cannot rule out this possibility anymore. And, only to reinforce his suspicions, Sherlock throws a coy smile in his direction just before walking into the other room.

 _Ignore it. Think of something else_.  _Anything_. “The case,” John finally remembers. “Er, Sherlock?” he calls after him, making sure he sounds composed enough even though he doesn’t feel as such at all.

“Yes?”

“That guy, the client's uncle... Harrington... whatever. Did you learn anything useful at all?”

“He is cheating on his wife.”

“...I’ve figured out that much myself. How exactly is that useful?”

Sherlock shows up in the doorway again, putting a t-shirt over his head, then leans against the wall, gazing down at John like he’s just discovered the most precious gem in the galaxy. He’s got that fond, dreamy smile on his lips and John cannot be absolutely certain that he is paying attention to him but, in a way, it’s somewhat adorable.

“Sherlock, we can’t come back empty-handed, what are we going to tell his nephew, hm?” John tries again, and this time Sherlock does reply, but doesn’t seem to be fazed in the slightest.

“Well, if we do come back empty-handed, that means the nephew was wrong and his uncle is here to bask in the sun and not to sell his family’s company to a filthy magnate or whatever the client thinks is going to happen... I wouldn’t worry too much.”

“Right, okay.” John averts his eyes, knowing there’s nothing else to be said about the case. Silence has fallen and he can but fiddle with the hem of his blanket, as if to keep himself occupied before inevitably breaking it again. “Are you... coming to bed now?”

“I might. I might not. I can still sleep on the sofa.”

It’s like Sherlock expects to be rejected any second now. Once their eyes meet again, John can see that he’s got the faintest blush upon his cheeks.

“Sherlock, we’ve already discussed this. You don’t have to sleep on the sofa... Come to bed. It’s fine,” John smiles softly despite feeling perhaps just a tiny bit nervous. Okay,  _very_ nervous.

At that, Sherlock’s face lightens up like thousands of Suns but, not unlike him, he doesn’t walk around the bed to reach the other side. He climbs right over John. then leans against the headboard to mirror his position. Once he’s nestled, he turns to look at John who still hasn’t completely recovered after momentarily ending up underneath him.

“Remind me, John,” Sherlock says, pretending to be serious for a split second. “Why exactly we've never slept in the same bed before?”

John needs a moment to perceive but as soon as he does, he bursts into giggles and gently bumps into Sherlock’s shoulder. “Because we’re not  _actually_  dating?” It’s meant to be a joke but John can only hardly lie to himself. He’d do anything for a chance to be with Sherlock for real. Especially now that he realises that sharing a bed with him feels as natural as if they’ve been doing it since the very beginning.

“Good point,” Sherlock laughs. 

“Not that I wouldn’t love to try your bed sometimes.”

“Now  _that_  sounds strangely suggestive.”

John shrugs, smiling innocently. Any other time he’d make the effort to backtrack but not this time. And turns out he's made the right choice. Because one innuendo leads to another and just like that, they accidentally spend half the night giggling and fooling around like a couple of teenagers. 

Which is why John looks positively horrified when he takes a glance at the alarm clock and notices the big flashing 2:14 on the screen.

“Jesus, no wonder I feel so knackered.”

“What, you’ve never stayed up this late?”

“Yeah, I have. I often do. Usually when you’re doing a particularly loud experiment,” John chuckles and reaches to switch off the lamp on the nightstand. The room suddenly goes dark and it takes a few moments until their eyes get use to it.

“Does this mean... good night?” Sherlock sounds almost disappointed. Or maybe his voice is just so hoarse due to exhaustion. He wouldn’t admit that though.

“I don’t know about you, but I do need to sleep, Sherlock,” John utters, adjusting his pillow, then lies down on his left side, so he’s still facing Sherlock.

“Sleep is boring.”

“You say the same thing about eating,” John murmurs, closing his eyes, feeling so tired he can barely keep them open. “And the Solar System. And singing... Come to think of it, is there  _anything_  in this world you  _don’t_  find boring?”

“Well...  _you_.”

John’s eyes slowly flutter open again. He can feel his lips spreading into the widest grin, even though he’s half asleep and can’t see much of Sherlock’s face for it is illuminated only by the moonlight that’s peeking through the windows.

“I never thought you could be this sweet.”

“Am I being...  _sweet_? I am just stating the truth.”

John laughs sleepily. “I wish I was more awake to return the compliment.”

Sherlock lets out a long, dramatic sigh but at the end of it, he smiles. “You really _are_ going to sleep.”

“Mhm, you should try it too.”

Realising this conversation leads absolutely nowhere, Sherlock finally gives up and lies down to face John. He doesn’t try to fall asleep though. His mind is too full, too clogged with notions and thoughts, ninety nine percent of which involve John. _John_. Sherlock spends several minutes studying John’s face, examining each wrinkle, each dimple and each tiny scar he can discern in the darkness before he shuffles closer towards him and ever so softly whispers: “John? Are you asleep yet?”

John stirs and groans, but doesn’t open his eyes.

“John?”

“Mhm...”

“I have a question. Remember what you said yesterday?”

“I said a  _lot of_  things yesterday,” John mumbles into the pillow.

“About kissing.”

At once, John’s eyes fly wide open. He’s wide awake again.

“I... I’ve been thinking and something’s just occurred to me,” Sherlock continues, looks a bit like he’s having trouble with picking the correct words though. “Remember what you said, in the elevator? You seemed to be fine with the idea of... of kissing me. But then... you didn’t kiss me in the restaurant even though you had the perfect opportunity. I did notice that out of the eighteen couples that were in the restaurant, only two didn’t share at least one kiss. One of them because the woman was about to end it and the other... us.”

John swallows. Is he dreaming? He can’t be. And yet, he can’t think of anything to say.

“Is that because we didn’t try it before?”

“ _T-try_  it?”

“Yes. I assume you didn’t want to kiss me in front of everyone because we’d never kissed before and messing up a kiss could easily butcher our cover. But-”

“ _But_?” John can barely hear Sherlock over the sound of his heart thudding inside his chest.

“There’s no one else here now.”

“Sherlock, what are you implying?”  _What the hell is he implying?_

“I... I think we should kiss  _now_. To break the ice.”

Silence. John blinks at Sherlock, speechless for a brief moment. “You want me to kiss you. Now.”

“Yes. I am not an expert but I am pretty sure that kissing takes a lot more practice than flirting. If we kiss for the first time  _here_ , in private, it shouldn’t be a problem later... in public. I think.”

 _Practice. He’s still talking about the case._  John can’t blame him though. ’A kiss or two for a case... no problem’ those were his words, he remembers. Backpedaling now would make it seem like he was fibbing and in fact doesn’t want to have anything to do with Sherlock’s lips. Not even for a case. Which is nowhere near true, obviously.

“All right, then,” he breathes out at last, trying to pay no attention to all the ways his body is responding to the fact that he is about to  _kiss Sherlock_...  _right now._

“Just... a small peck on the lips?”

“No more, no less.”

“...Okay.”

Instinctively, they both begin to move forward in the same time, pulling against each other like two magnets until their faces finally meet in the middle of the bed. As it turns out two seconds later, however, this is most certainly _not_ going to be  _just a small peck._  First, there’s but a tender, tentative brush of lips but as soon as they make contact and actually touch John instantly melts against Sherlock’s body and kisses him hard and lovingly, completely forgetting that this whole thing is supposed to be just a ruse for a case. Because to him, it’s not and never have been anyway. John kisses Sherlock for real, holding on for a couple of long, beautiful, extraordinary moments... only to realise he’s probably overdone it and should have retreated much sooner. But just as he is about to withdraw, Sherlock suddenly parts his lips and begins to  _kiss back_  with somewhat an unprecedented passion. John half opens his eyes in disbelief, as if to  _make sure_  he really isn’t dreaming, but he immediately closes them again because Sherlock is  _really_  urging him to deepen the kiss and hell, John has no idea what’s happening but this might as well be the most amazing moment of his life and he’s not going to pass the opportunity to make the best out of it.

But once he reaches to cup Sherlock’s cheek and bring him even closer, Sherlock whimpers into his open mouth and then... abruptly pulls back, panting and staring at John, wide-eyed, feeling like he’s just done something he should be terribly ashamed of.

Confused, John blinks at him, trying to make out his expression in the dark, but before his eyes manage to adjust again, Sherlock hastily turns away from him and curls up under the blanket.

“Sherlock?” John gulps, his voice but a broken, quivering whisper. This is precisely _not_ how he wanted the kiss to end like.

“Good night.... John,” Sherlock exhales, struggling to steady his breathing. Closing his eyes, he presses two fingers against his own lips, as if to relive the feeling of kissing John but it’s  _too much_ , too much emotions to cope with all at once. The need to turn around and kiss John again is crushing him, he might as well burst with it, but... he can’t. John’s oblivious to how much Sherlock desires him, how deeply and unconditionally he loves him and...  _it has to stay that way_ , for Sherlock believes that revealing the truth and confessing his feelings would irrevocably ruin whatever it is between them.  _Just keep pretending_ , he thinks,  _keep acting like every next kiss and every touch is only for a case. Even if it hurts_.

The saddest part about these thoughts is that right now, in this very moment... John is having  _exactly_  the same ones.


	6. Chapter 6

John wakes up feeling the warm caress of sunlight on his face. With a yawn he opens his eyes, at first a little disoriented, but it’s not long before the memories of what happened last night begin to unfold in front of him.

“Oh, God...” 

John blinks, realising the other side of the bed is empty. Sheets crumpled but Sherlock nowhere to be seen.  _This is not good._ Now properly awake, John bolts upright and springs out of the bed, hoping Sherlock didn’t just disappear and he’ll find him somewhere else in the suite. To his disappointment, however, the other room seems to be as vacant as the bedroom.

“Sher-Sherlock?” No response. John swallows dryly, his voice still a bit too rough this early in the morning. He gives the room another once-over, then returns to the bedroom, worries creeping in but he’s trying his best to ignore them. 

He grabs his phone from the nightstand, thinking he might as well try to call Sherlock, but just as he puts the phone to his ear, he notices the balcony door is slightly ajar, and the curtains are half-closed, almost like purposefully obscuring the view through the window. It doesn’t take Sherlock himself to figure out. That must be where he’s... hiding? Looks like he  _is_  hiding. Nonetheless, John couldn’t feel more relieved. He tosses the phone on the bed and steps forward, quietly pulling the door open. His gaze immediately goes to Sherlock’s tall, slender figure leaning over the railing. Sherlock has yet to realise that John’s watching him, for John’s somewhat stiffened silently in the doorway and he himself seems to be deeply engrossed in admiring the sea view.... or not. As it transpires, Sherlock’s preoccupied doing something entirely else and it’s something John did not expect, let alone wished to witness him doing. First John notices the foul smell, and in turn, his eyes are drawn to the thin stream of smoke emanating from the cigarette Sherlock’s holding. John’s heart sinks at this sight.  _Why now_? 

“Sherlock?” John peeps at once, clenching his left fist. Startled, Sherlock nearly chokes on the smoke, looking awfully abashed.

“S-sorry,” he coughs, still blowing out smoke as he fumbles to put out the cigarette.

“Are you okay?” John has taken a step toward Sherlock, making sure not to sound like he is about to reproach him.

“I am fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” he gives John a guilty look, then bows his head. “What about, uhm... you?”

“ _Me_?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, still visibly flustered. “Stupid question, I know. You slept for only about four hours and done none of your morning rituals yet. You must be weary and irritated and yet... the first thing you did was to search for me. Which is why I must presume you want to...  _talk_?”

John hesitates to reply, caught between a rock and a hard place. Because of  _course_  he wants to talk. About the two of them and their relationship, the kiss they shared the other night and now there’s the darn cigarette too but in the same time, he’s well aware that opening his heart to Sherlock could potentially lead to several disastrous outcomes, and that is a risk he is not willing to take just yet.

“We both know that  _talking_... isn’t exactly our cup of tea,” he says with a woeful sigh.

“That’s a fairly ridiculous statement,” Sherlock objects. “Last night for instance...We talked for hours on end.”

John can’t help but chuckle at that. “I meant the  _serious_  kind of talk, Sherlock.”

“Ah, I see.” Sherlock takes a pause, rocking back and forth on his heels, eyes on the floor. “I take it you  _don’t_ want to talk about what happened last night then.”

“Well... do you?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“There’s not much to talk about anyway. The-the-” Sherlock makes a hopeless gesture with his hand pointing at his lips, “- _kiss_  was purely experimental. A part of our cover.”

“...Yeah.”

The tension between them is almost tangible. Trivialising the whole incident is only going to make both of them feel so much more worse.  _But it’s the only way_ , John thinks. He has to keep his true feelings at bay, carefully hidden from Sherlock. And even though he did have the tiniest glimmer of hope that their relationship could bloom into something much deeper, it’s most definitely lost by now. Six more days and they’ll be back at Baker Street and this whole game of playing a couple will be over anyway. A mere thing of the past that they’ll most likely never mention again.

“I’ll understand if you want to tone it down a bit, though,” Sherlock suddenly says and it takes a moment for John to comprehend. He can’t possibly concur with that now, though, for if he did, he could as well admit what kissing Sherlock truly made him feel like. Better keep downplaying it...

“No,” John shakes his head. “It’s not the first time we’re doing something this, er... unconventional for a case. You said so yourself, kissing is just the part of the job. No need to get...  _emotional_.” These words, these ugly, painful  _lies_  taste like poison on John’s tongue but he can’t drop the facade. And, as if to convince himself that he can handle the following week without crumbling, or perhaps just to put an end to this excruciating conversation, he lifts himself up on his tiptoes and gently pecks Sherlock’s cheek.

“See? It's fine. We’re fine.”  _They’re so not fine_. John could swear he’s just caught a glimpse of hurt in Sherlock’s eyes and once he pulls back he even notices his bottom lip wobbling ever so faintly but then Sherlock forces a weak smile and John decides it would be for the best if he simply changed the subject.

“So, uhm...”he rubs the back of his neck. _Work. Talk about the work._ “What about Harrington then?”

Sherlock seems to be still reeling a bit there, he shrug his shoulders, then turns to look at the sun raising on the horizon.

“I heard he’s taking his lover to the beach later today. It would be foolish to assume he’s meeting anyone potentially dangerous to his family’s business on a  _beach and_ whilst on a _date_ , but we  _are_  supposed to stay at his heels, so.”

John is only half-listening, he can’t help but stare at Sherlock’s face _._  A beautifully ethereal face bathing in the mellow pink light, sun’s rays drowning in the vast azure ocean of his eyes. And as the breeze ever so gently blows through his dark hair, it’s like watching the most breathtaking painting come to life.

“Beach. Beach sounds nice,” John says, a bit absently, that is. Sherlock, however, seems to be completely unaware of the effect he's having on him. Oblivious, like always.

“You wouldn’t mind going?”

“Well, err... we’re in Spain. Staying at the hotel the whole time would be like going to Paris and not visiting the Eiffel Tower.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that if we ever visit Paris.”

John gives a strained laugh. The prospect of him and Sherlock visiting the most romantic city on Earth is definitely not what he wants to be discussing right now. 

“Anyway... I thought of ordering breakfast to the room,“ he says, never mind that he, in fact, didn't think of it until he needed an excuse to change the subject yet again. “Anything special on your mind?”

“A question, actually. What happened to  _'the only thing I can say in Spanish is gracias_ _'_  ?” Sherlock does his best at mimicking John, reminding him of how not into speaking Spanish he was the evening before. Not that John  _needed_ to be reminded. Sherlock's ability to remember every detail under the Sun, relevant or not, is sometimes more of a nuisance than advantage.

“ _Completely irrelevant_ ,” John asserts. “We're in a five star hotel. I am pretty sure half the staff speaks English perfectly well, the only problem is that  _you_ wanted to  _show off_ and made an utter fool out of me.”

“That wasn't my intention.”

“Mhm... You can make it up to me by not protesting and eating your breakfast for once.”

Sherlock sighs with a touch of theatricality to it. “You of all people should know that  _eating_  slows me down, John. We’re on a case. I must be one hundred percent fit.”

“Not eating will make you the opposite of one hundred percent fit,” John insists.

Sherlock does attempt to protest but John has already begun to walk away. Knowing he’s lost the argument, Sherlock sulks for a moment or two but it takes only a little while before his pout morphs into a fond, besotted smile. He wouldn’t ever admit that out loud, or at least not yet, the truth, however, is that he feels extremely flattered by how much John cares about him and his well-being.

Fifteen minutes later they’re sitting at the wicker table on the balcony, a tray of neatly arranged breakfast and two still steaming cups of coffee between them. But while John has already loaded his plate with food, Sherlock seems to be having a hard time deciding whether to put jam or cheese on his toast.

John throws a couple of furtive glances at him, at first simply smiling, because the crinkle that appears above Sherlock’s nose when he’s ruminating is just plain  _adorable_  but as soon as he realises that Sherlock might end up not eating at all, he tears off a small piece of his own toast and passes it toward Sherlock’s lips. 

Baffled, Sherlock blinks at him, his eyes flicking between the toast in John’s hand and his face. “What exactly are you doing John?”

“Feeding you.”

“Because... it’s what couples do?”

John feels the redness building up on his cheeks. “N-no. Because you wouldn’t eat otherwise and I don’t want you to pass out.”

Sherlock’s gaze goes to John’s hand once more, he seems to be contemplating. But only for a moment. With a sheepish smile he leans forward, slowly opens his mouth and - locking their eyes - he bites on the toast John has offered.

 _The hell is he thinking?_  John gulps, heart thundering in his ears. He could as well moan out loud or make a similarly inappropriate sound and he wouldn’t even be aware of it. It actually takes him solid five seconds to realise that his hand is still hovering in the air and he’s gaping at Sherlock like a fish. Embarrassed to the very core of his self, he quickly leans back in his seat, trying to refocus on his breakfast but God, does he need an ice cold shower right now...

Having spent almost twenty minutes waiting for John to finish what was supposed to be a  _quick rinse_ , Sherlock should be the one asking questions but somewhat ironically, once John finally leaves the bathroom, it’s Sherlock who has some explaining to do.

“You want to go outside like  _that_?” John frowns, pointing at Sherlock’s shirt, unbuttoned halfway down and thus exposing an obscenely large patch of his skin. 

“Umm... John, you do realise we’re going to the beach and I am going to loose the shirt anyway?”

“You are?” John takes a pause, momentarily distracted by the mental image. “I-I mean, of course you are... What’s the idea then? Have a swim in the sea?“

“In the sea? No.” Sherlock makes a disgruntled grimace, the mere concept seems to be repulsing him. “Salt water makes my skin itch. I’d be happy to have a swim in the ginormous swimming pool outside the hotel and if the opportunity arises, I will. But today, the plan is to lie on the shore and do nothing at all.”

“And by that you mean... monitor our guy?”

“...Yes.”

They arrive at the beach shortly before noon and quickly find just the right spot to lay a blanket, relatively far from where the rest of the people are sunbathing. John, however, notices that Harrington himself doesn’t seem to be among them.

“Are you sure he’s going to be here?” John puts his hands to his hips, taking a thoughtful look around the beach. 

“He’ll show up. Sooner or later.”

John chuckles, his eyes going to Sherlock, who’s now sitting cross-legged on the blanket. “Why do I have a feeling that you-” He starts but all at once, his voice falters, dissolving into a single barely audible  _oh_. For Sherlock has not only already taken off his shirt, John actually catches him scrupulously applying tons of sunscreen to his arms.

“Can you please put some of this onto my back?” Unaware of what is going through John’s head, Sherlock extends his hand to pass him the tube. 

“I-um... s-sure.”

“Don’t skimp on it. I have a very sensitive skin.”

 _Sensitive skin._ On one hand, it’s somewhat an honour to be entrusted with this kind of private information, on another, John can feel his fingers trembling as he pours some of the lotion onto his palms. He kneels behind Sherlock and ever so gently begins to massage the sunscreen into his back. It’s a moment so intimate, John wishes to forget they’re in public. And Sherlock... Sherlock makes it anything but easier.  

“Your hands are soft...”

John freezes. That wasn’t a mere observation. More like a compliment, a small, timid, half-whisper. A compliment John can only hardly formulate a proper response to.

“Why... thank you?” Mindlessly, John keeps stroking his palms up and down Sherlock’s back even though the sunscreen has already began to seep into his skin. 

Sherlock seems to be unfazed by this, or perhaps he finds it amusing even, judging by the low chuckle that’s just rumbled deep in his chest.

“Can I make a request?”

It’s not until now that John pulls back and with a half confused frown and still on his knees he crawls around Sherlock so he can face him. “Request?” He sits down on his heels, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of a request?”

Sherlock smiles, leaning back and propping himself up on his elbows. “Once we get back to our room, you  _have_ to give me a massage.”

 _Is he joking_? Possibly yes. But it doesn’t stop John from returning the smile. “I  _have_  to?”

“I would... appreciate if you would... Better?”

John crosses his arms. “Since when are you into massages?”

“Since three minutes ago. I mean, I could go to a SPA but I trust you, as a doctor, will do a better job.”

A small giggle escapes John’s throat. “Alright, alright. I might consider it.”

Were this a real relationship, John would most likely lean in for a sweet little kiss to seal the deal. Make that  _most definitely_. In fact, he should do that regardless, he thinks, but it seems that Sherlock’s attention has already been diverted.

“I told you he’d be here,” Sherlock nods toward the couple that’s just showed up strolling down the beach.

“We have to keep a low profile. Don’t stare too much... Actually, don’t stare at all. Don't even look in their direction.”

“What... what do you suggest doing, then?”

“I already told you, John.”

“...Nothing at all?” John snorts.

Winking at him, Sherlock lies down on the blanket, gazing up at the cloudless sky for a moment before he turns to face John again... “You can as well give me the kiss you would have given me had Harrington's presence not disturbed you.”

John’s eyes widen.  _Was it that obvious?_

Sherlock but smiles in response to John’s nonplussed expression, which in turn brings a huge grin to John’s face. It doesn’t take long before they’re both once again giggling like a pair of lovesick teenagers...


	7. Chapter 7

“What a waste of time.”

Sherlock couldn't sound more vexed if he tried. If John weren't used to his grumbling, he would too, be on the verge of exasperation by now but this time he handles it with a smile on his lips. Such demeanour seems to confound Sherlock. _He shouldn't be smiling, he's supposed to be fuming._ BecauseSherlock definitely is.

“John? Are you listening to me?” Sherlock huffs, affronted by the possibility that John is ignoring him.

“Sure am.”

“Then what did I just say?”

“You were complaining,” John retorts. Sherlock scowls at him in return but decides to hold his tongue. At least until they reach their hotel room.

As soon as John swipes the keycard to open the door, Sherlock stomps through and with the heaviest possible sigh leans against the opposite wall.

“This is the last time I agreed to work on a case this _tedious_.”

Without a word, John closes the door. Sherlock throws another frown in his direction, as if to express his disappointment with the lack of response but quickly resumes ranting.

“We've spent half the day following Harrington around and what for? Such an... insufferably ordinary man. No skills, no brains, _nada_. Definitely not a criminal material, John. His nephew must be pretty paranoid to think so.”

It's been a while since Sherlock was in such a surly mood. John quickly comes to realise that if he doesn't attempt to make that frown disappear he'll be dealing with a very grumpy Sherlock for a very long time.

“Come now.” Taking two steps, John reduces the distance between them to a few inches, bearing the most affectionate smile on his lips. “Don't tell me you'd rather spend all day lying on a beach.” He pokes Sherlock's side with his elbow, alas, it doesn't seem to help mollify him.

“Believe me or not, John, I enjoyed the awfully short time we spent on the beach  _much_ more than the five excruciating hours of waddling at Harrington's heels. And besides...” Sherlock crosses his arms, “we haven't been exactly cautious enough. I wouldn't be surprised if he's already noticed that we're on to him.”

John's smile gradually fades. “You think so?”

“I am certain of it,” Sherlock asserts, pushing himself away from the wall.

“What do you suggest then? D'you want to abandon the case?”

Sherlock scowls. “Abandon the case? Really, John, you've known me for two years?”

“So? We can't pretend we've solved it. Because we _haven't_.”

“Oh, but we don't have to _pretend_ , John. I've just reached the conclusion that Harrington is too dumb to engage in illegal activity. Sounds good to me. You can put that on your blog.”

“Wait. Are you... you're being serious,” John licks his lips, a frown on his face. _That can't be right._ “That's it? We're done here?”

“Why, yes. It would appear so...You sound disappointed.”

“Can you blame me? I've been promised a whole _week_ worth of Spanish sun.” Although being, in fact, sorely disappointed, John laughs it off. As per usual. Sherlock has, however, noticed the subtle shift in the tone of John's voice and despite John's best efforts, cannot be fooled.

“We don't have to go anywhere, you know,” he remarks, talking to the carpet for a moment before he meets John's eyes again. “If you don't want to.”

John blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you're not _wrong_ , we're not supposed to check out for another five days, so... We might as well... I thought we could perhaps, you know, make the best of the situation and... er... take a break from stalking people and solving crimes and whatnot and simply... enjoy Spain like regular people do?”

_Sherlock. Sherlock wants to take a break from solving crimes? Now, that's a first._

“Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?” John laughs, even though he deems it a tad weird.

Sherlock looks away again, a little embarrassed. “It was just an idea,” he mutters.

Under perfectly normal circumstances, John would agree to that without a missing a beat. But these are clearly not perfectly normal circumstances.

“It's not that the idea doesn't sound alluring-” John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There's just... something you seem to have forgotten.” John takes a pause, his eyes boring intensely into Sherlock's. He almost wishes he could read his mind.

“What about... us?”

“What about _us_?” Sherlock cocks his head. It's _endearing_ , John has to admit. To himself, that is.

“I-I mean, if we stay. Are we going to keep, you know... playing boyfriends?”

“Oh, _that_.” Sherlock's voice has instantly softened. Gone is the glum expression, as well as the stern look in his eyes. “If it's fine by you,” he shrugs, as if in attempt to convince himself that it's not a big deal. ”I-I know we started, well, _playing boyfriends_ only because of the case and now that we're done, there's technically no need to anymore, but... to be entirely fair, it would be odd if we all of a sudden quit. We've been presenting ourselves as doting partners ever since we arrived and if we're to stay, we should stick to our roles unless we want to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. Plus... we can't let Mycroft win the bet, can we?”

John sniggers. That alone does it. No reason to think twice. “Hell no. Which... is why we-”

“-keep acting like a couple. Yes... We can start with the massage.”

Sherlock must have not expected to start blushing because the moment his cheeks redden, he titters and scuttles toward the bedroom. John can't help but gawk after him, thoroughly puzzled.

”The _massage_?”

Just before disappearing behind the door, Sherlock stops in his tracks and flashes somewhat a shy smile over his shoulder. “The massage you promised to give me, of course.”

 _That stupid handsome smile._ One of many Sherlock's smiles that make John's stomach swarm with butterflies. Especially now as he follows Sherlock into the bedroom.

“I didn't actually _promise_ ,” John chortles once after he finds Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed. Sherlock seemed to have anticipated a different sort of a reply, if the dissatisfied frown on his face is anything to go by.

“Didn't you?” he furrows his brow.

“I said I'd consider it. Two different things.”

“I don't understand. I asked nicely.”

“Ah, well,” John gives a small sigh, then walks up to the bed and sits down next to Sherlock. “You can't always get what you want.”

Sherlock squints at John, taking almost too long to realise that he's joking. “You're taking the piss, are you not?”

John succeeds at keeping a straight face for only the briefest moment before he loses it and dissolves to giggles. “And here I thought you wouldn't notice.”

“ _Me_? Wouldn't notice?”

“Right. My sincerest apologies.” John's laugh is contagious enough to make the corners of Sherlock's lips tug upwards again. Two can play this game though.

“Hm. I am afraid an apology won't do. You owe me for taking a dig at my intellect.” _Did Sherlock just bite his lip_? John needs no more persuasion. Not that he needed much, to begin with.

“All right. Will a little of _this_ do?” John asks, a hint of a teasing tone as he puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and begins to gently knead. The whimper that's just left Sherlock's mouth is soon followed by another and another when John shifts to sit behind him and presses his palms more firmly against the bare skin.

“Your muscles are tense,” John observes as he rubs up and down Sherlock's nape. Sherlock suspects it's the doctor in him speaking, which only makes it harder to keep it together. Literally. He can only wish that John doesn't intend to stop anytime soon.

Turns out he doesn't. On the contrary. Slowly, John slides his fingers underneath Sherlock's shirt, pulls it off his shoulders and proceeds to stroke further down his back, dexterous fingers making Sherlock's skin tingle and burn and crave for a more intimate touch.

“How's that, hm?” John chuckles, his voice deep and gravelly.

Sherlock responds with a sound akin to a purr first before he manages a reply. “I... Better than I imagined.”

Licking his lips, John gives another low chuckle, his hands caressing languidly up Sherlock's back again before he returns to massaging his shoulders.

“See, were we a real couple, this is where I'd probably-”

Too little too late John realises that he's begun to talk out loud. Just as he bites his tongue, Sherlock's tiny gasp cuts through the silence. With bated breath, he turns to face John, the tender, curious look in his eyes enough to incapacitate him.

“...You'd... what?”

John swallows loudly, heart pounding wildly. “N-nothing,” he stutters out, hastily withdrawing his hands. “I was just... fantasising. Not that I... I mean I _don't fantasise_ about... you. Jesus, I should shut up.”

“No. Don't,” Sherlock implores, his voice a faint whisper, a tad desperate maybe, but John has already raised up and headed for the bathroom.

“Sorry, I'll be... I am going to take a shower. Or something.”

It's the lamest of excuses John could think of, but right now, he _really_ needs to flee the scene. Having said that, he reaches for the handle and quickly shuts the door behind him, trying to avoid Sherlock's gaze at all cost. Sherlock makes no further attempt to stop him, for the truth is, even if he did, he wouldn't know what to say afterward.

Because John was right. Talking just isn't their cup of tea...

Fifteen minutes later, John returns to find Sherlock curled up on his side and... seemingly sound asleep. Quietly, he tiptoes toward the bed, just to make sure Sherlock isn't only feigning slumber, but once he takes a look at his serene face, he can no longer tear his eyes off him. It would be a crime to pass up the chance to relish this rare sight for just a little longer. Having to spend all day in the scorching sun must have taken a toll on Sherlock, and it has certainly taken a toll on John too, but in spite of sleep deprivation, he can't bring himself to lie down next to Sherlock as of yet.

With a wistful little sigh, John turns his back to the sleeping man, but just as he does, Sherlock winces, kicks away the duvet he was covered with and sleepily murmurs something incoherent into the pillow. John takes a step back, as he could swear that he's just heard Sherlock say _John_ but he concludes that it must have been just his drowsy mind deceiving him.

He dithers for a split second, then bends over Sherlock, grabs the duvet and ever so gingerly pulls it over him again. And just like that, a small loving smile starts to spread across his lips. He can't help it. Nor he can help brushing the few errant strands of curls off Sherlock's forehead.

“Goodnight _,_ ” John but mouths, fearing that even a teeny whisper could rouse Sherlock. After all, having to explain to him why he watched him in his sleep would most likely end disastrously.

Speaking of which, it's time to stop doing that, John chides himself. As he lifts his gaze, his eyes automatically glide over to the laptop lying on the mahogany desk opposite the bed. John had put it away when they arrived and never touched it since but now that the case has been solved, he might as well update the blog and kill some time before he is ready to share the bed with Sherlock again.

As noiselessly as possible, John walks up to the desk and sits down in the chair but he very soon realises that trying to get anything done at this hour is virtually useless. The longer he stares at the screen, the more blurry his vision gets until he actually dozes off for a while and probably would spend the night in a very uncomfortable position were it not for his head almost hitting the top of the desk.

Albeit slightly disoriented and dopey, John eventually manages to rise to his feet and after a couple of moments of staggering through the pitch dark bedroom he finally crashes into the bed and drifts off...


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning plays out, to put it mildly, much differently than the morning before and not only because John is the one to wake up first.

Just as the haze over his eyes clears up, he registers the tousled mop of hair tickling his chin and soon enough realises that _somehow_ he's become trapped in Sherlock's embrace. Sherlock must have gravitated toward him in his sleep and ended up clinging to him like a vine to a branch.

“God...” John almost forgets how to breath for a second.

He does attempt to shuffle away and sneak out but Sherlock only snuggles closer to him and nuzzles up against his chest like a cat. John doesn't seem to have another option, he's got to wake him up.

“Sherl... Sherlock?” Patting Sherlock's arm turns out to be of no use, merely elicits a displeased whine from him. It's only after John's slightly shaking hand reaches to stroke Sherlock's cheek, that he scrunches up his nose and slowly opens his eyes.

It takes Sherlock several moments to grasp what's happening. But once he does... The realisation hits him like a bucket of ice cold water thrown in his face. Swallowing emptily, he only very slowly tilts his head to meet John's gaze.

“John.... Hey. Morning.” Sherlock's voice is croaky, he looks beyond dishevelled, sporting a three days' worth of stubble and damn... John has never in his life seen anything that attractive.

“Morning,” John gives a lopsided smile, fighting against the urge to stare at Sherlock's mouth. Which is anything but easy, considering that Sherlock's incredibly voluptuous lips are _right there_ , within reach. And to make it even worse, Sherlock makes them _move_.

“To be entirely honest.... this is _not_ the position I expected to wake up in.”

“Neither did I,” John breathes out, the short moment of silence equal to eternity. “...You're lying on top of me.”

“I, umm, yes...” Sherlock clears his throat, pale cheeks turning pink. “I... should get up, shouldn't I?”

“I suppose... We both should.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock barely finishes, he hurries to scramble over John and quickly rolls out of the bed. He takes a moment to stretch his arms, grabs his gown from the hanger on the wall and then, only then, he looks back at John. Smiling like nothing happened.

“How about we go to the pool today?” The question catches John completely off guard. “I think I mentioned that I'd like to go for a swim.”

“Something along those lines, yes, you did, but are we not going to-”

Suddenly, John stops himself, realising there's no point in dwelling on what happened the evening before and risk another awkward conversation. Half of the attempts to have a heart-to-heart ended nearly catastrophically after all.

“Going to what?” Sherlock squints at John but he offers no answer and instead shrugs it off.

“Nothing, forget it.” Flashing a forced smile, John pushes himself up and out of the bed and steps toward Sherlock. “Pool sounds great. I haven't been in ages... unless you count the incident with Moriarty,” he adds, knitting his eyebrows in a frown. It wasn't a pleasant memory.

“I thought we agreed to never speak of that night again,” Sherlock's face is all but deadpan for a brief moment before he finally decides to give up on trying to deduce John's thoughts and pulls up a smirk. “We weren't even dressed for the occasion. I _do_ hope you didn't forget to bring trunks this time.”

“Ah... very funny.” John playfully smacks Sherlock's chest and without another word turns to walk into the bathroom, glad that, for once, he didn't embarrass himself.

He barely starts to brush his teeth though, when Sherlock suddenly calls after him. Surely, whatever it is that he wants, it can wait a minute or two, John thinks, but Sherlock is evidently of another opinion. Receiving no reply only prompts him to shout John's name louder and more urgently, leaving John with no choice but to drop everything.

With a sigh, John hurries to rinse his mouth and heads back into the bedroom but the very moment he walks through the door, he freezes like a deer in the headlights. He finds Sherlock sitting at the mahogany desk, peering intently at the screen of _his_ laptop.

“Wha-what are you doing?” _As if it wasn't obvious_ , John gulps. _How could he forgot_? There's no doubt in his mind... Sherlock have just read the yet unfinished entry that John had scribbled last night.

It's not until he approaches the desk that Sherlock meets his gaze. Silently, he beckons to the device, hundreds of questions in his eyes. John only very reluctantly looks at the screen and skims over the single paragraph...

**Undercover**

**Never have I expected to end up in a luxurious Spanish hotel with Sherlock and yet that's precisely where I found myself. Sherlock had been assigned to go undercover and he asked me to come along and pretend to be his boyfriend. Yes, his _boyfriend_. Means holding hands. And kissing. Go on, laugh all you want, I don't care. As a matter of fact, Sherlock is a surprisingly great kisser. And I am**

_Pathetic_ , John thinks to himself. _Appallingly pathetic._

Clenching his left fist, he draws in a deep breath before he turns back to Sherlock. “I... um... I wrote that when I was half asleep. It's just a draft. I don't even plan to publish it.”

A shadow of disappointment crosses over Sherlock's face. The last thing John wanted was to upset him, but judging by the downhearted look, he's managed to do just that.

“That... that _doesn't_ mean you _aren't_ a great kisser,” he clarifies at once, blushing all the way to the tips of his ears.

Sherlock's jaw slightly drops at that, the spark in his eyes reignited. With a bashful smile, he raises up from the chair and takes a little step toward John, almost pressing their chests together. John doesn't even blink, hypnotised by the heavenly colour of Sherlock's eyes but he quickly snaps out of it as Sherlock's smile starts to grow into a grin.

“What's _that_ about?” he raises an eyebrow.

“I am sorry. It's just... You've got a bit of... you know. If I may...”

John has never really gone weak at the knees before, but once Sherlock's thumb reaches to brush the corner of his lips, his whole body turns entirely numb.

“...Toothpaste,” Sherlock chuckles affectionately, as he gently wipes the smudge off John's cheek.

 _So much for not embarrassing himself_. And yet, despite initially considering to bolt and never look Sherlock in the eye again, John cannot help but laugh. Laugh at the sheer absurdity of the past few minutes.

“There goes my dignity,” he sighs theatrically.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Sherlock says, putting on the fakest stone-cold face he is capable of, “I admit that it's partly my fault.”

“Oh, that's very generous of you.” Another burst of laughter escapes John's throat and as for Sherlock... he can't quite restrain himself either.


	9. Chapter 9

It's not until the afternoon that Sherlock and John make it to the swimming pool. As they saunter down the marble-paved pathway, beautifully lined with red roses and carnations, Sherlock makes a few quick observations of the people scattered around the pool. As far as _that_ goes, he doesn't seem to be impressed but he keeps his opinions to himself, at least until they find themselves a couple of chairs to claim. Fortunately enough, it doesn't take too long. A pair of wooden loungers hidden in the shade of palm trees seem to have been waiting _just_ for them.

“Talk about luck,” John smiles, but Sherlock doesn't share his excitement.

“We'd be lucky if we had the pool for ourselves,” he mutters, throwing a disapproving scowl at everyone within fifty metres. “This place is like a _magnet_ for supercilious individuals. It's galling. What are they all doing here?”

“Err... the same as us? And besides, you don't know if-”

“ _John_. These people think of themselves as superior. They make disgusting amounts of money they spend on things they don't actually want nor need but they do love to boast about how _much_ they own. Why on earth does anyone need _five_ cars for? Rich men are corrupted.”

“Sherlock, you asked me to pick one of the most expensive meals the other day, _just_ to spite your brother.”

“That was _different_ , I-” Sherlock objects but his voice slowly trails off as he notices that John has begun to unbutton his shirt. And suddenly, it's impossible to concentrate on anything else. It's not like he's never seen John shirtless, it's just that John (unlike Sherlock) doesn't tend to promenade around the flat half-naked and Sherlock has always been too respectful to exploit the semi-transparent glass door that leads from his bedroom directly into the bathroom.

“You're staring,” John titters, dumping his shirt and towel on one of the chairs. He can't deny that Sherlock's reaction is flattering if a bit perplexing.

“I-I am sorry, I didn't mean to... _stare_. I was just-”

“It's fine,” John lowers his head as if to conceal his flushing cheeks. _“_ Are you sure you don't want to shift your attention to someone _worth_ looking at though? There's plenty of candidates.”

The corners of Sherlock's mouth curl into a shy half-smile. “Why would I want to look at anyone else? Nobody holds a candle to you.” Giving John a once-over, he walks up to him, glancing at the star-shaped scar stretched across John's left shoulder. It's the first time he gets to see it properly but he doesn't pry nor even mention it and quickly refocuses on John's eyes instead. The barely five inches between their faces make maintaining the eye contact incredibly difficult though.

Desperate to retain his composure, John avoids looking at Sherlock's lips at all cost, knowing that if he did, no force on Earth or elsewhere could keep him from kissing Sherlock. Which, in itself, wouldn't be a problem. The problem would be to try and not get carried away again...

To John's relief, Sherlock doesn't linger around too long. The next thing he knows, Sherlock strips off his shirt and with a tantalising grin on his face, he plunges into the pool.

“Are you not coming?” Sherlock laughs once after he emerges from the water and for good measure, he splashes John, who can't pretend to be annoyed for five seconds but he sure as hell won't let Sherlock get away with it that easily.

“I might reconsider it,” his face splits in a teasy smile, “if you do that again.”

“ _Hey_ , I thought we came to have _fun_.”

“Aren't we a bit old for this kind of _fun_?” Sitting down on the edge of the pool, John dips his feet in the water and in spite of what he's just said, he _splashes Sherlock_ , giving him the taste of his own medicine. The look of betrayal in Sherlock's eyes is priceless.

“I take that back,” John smirks mischievously.

But Sherlock knows exactly how to respond. Returning the smirk, he leisurely swims closer to John, his mind set on revenge. If only he wasn't distracted...

“Oh, for God's sakes.” The flirty smile has turned upside down, much to John's confusion. Sherlock isn't even looking at him anymore, his gaze seems to be drawn to something in the distance, far behind John's back.

“Sherlock? What are you-”

Sherlock all but rolls his eyes. “It's Harrington. _No_ , don't look. He's watching us like a hawk.”

“ _Harrington_? What is he-Wait... Did you _know_ he'd be here?”

“Of course I didn't _know_ he'd be here, John. If I did, I wouldn't suggest going. I can stomach a few dozens of snobs but _him_? I am taking our crime-free holiday one hundred percent seriously,” Sherlock insists, the crease on his forehead growing deeper. “He's still glaring. I don't like it. Told you that we hadn't been cautious enough.”

“What do we do?”

Sherlock bites down on his lip, toying with a few ideas, then looks back at John. “Kiss me.”

“Wh- _Now_?” John blinks. He's _just_ made the effort to _resist_ doing that.

“He'll leave us alone if we start snogging right in front of his nose,” Sherlock utters under his breath. “I know we haven't kissed since _that_ _night_ but you said it's fine and unless you've changed your mind-”

“I haven't,” John cuts him off, sounding a lot more determined than he feels. Sherlock's right, they haven't locked lips since the first and only time and there's no guarantee that their second attempt won't end similarly awkwardly. And more so because they're in public. But _God_ , John's practically burning with desire to kiss Sherlock again and after a moment of pondering, he decides not to let his fears and insecurities hinder him anymore. Regardless of what might or might not happen.

Leaning forward, he closes the distances between him and Sherlock and with a coy little smile he whispers against Sherlock's parted lips. “Come here, what are you waiting for?”

Sherlock doesn't need to be told twice. He puts his hands on the edge of the pool, on each side of John, and lifts himself up a little, smiling into the kiss.

The moment their lips touch, the rest of the world ceases to exist. In an instant, John cradles Sherlock's face in his hands and ever so lovingly caresses his cheeks with his thumbs. Sherlock's lips are as soft and honey-sweet as John remembers and as equally electrifying, impelling him to kiss even more eagerly. Judging by the whimpers vibrating deep in Sherlock 's throat, he seems to be more than happy to deepen the kiss.

Sneaking his arms around John's waist, he even begins to suck and nibble on John's lower lip, driving the man positively crazy. Try as he might, John can't suppress a little moan, surprised that Sherlock has taken the charge, but as it turns out... he has an ulterior motive too.

Before John knows it, he starts to slip over the edge of the pool and with a huge splash, he falls into the tepid water. Or, to put it more correctly, _Sherlock_ _pulls_ him into the water.

“ _You... little... shit_ ,” John groans, giving Sherlock a look of reproach, but his voice is quivering with amusement. And it's impossible to act offended when you're on the verge of laughter.

“I am sorry, I had to,” Sherlock giggles, paddling toward John.

“Oh, you _had_ to?” John licks his lips. He runs a hand across his face and through his drenched hair, his piercing gaze not leaving Sherlock. Not necessarily because he expects Sherlock to throw water at him again, the truth is, he finds himself unable to stop his eyes from wandering all around Sherlock's body. The droplets of water rolling down his muscular arms. And neck. And hair. That _hair_. Wet, slicked back and atypically non-curly, and yet John has never before yearned to stroke his fingers through it as much as now.

He can't help it, he doesn't even pause to think of the consequences. In the heat of the moment, John reaches to grab Sherlock by the back of his neck and pulls him into another, a far more spontaneous kiss. Stunned, Sherlock forgets to close his eyes for a second but once his mind clicks and he fully perceives, his eyes flutter shut and he begins to kiss back with as much fervor as John.

John doesn't want this moment to end. And not only because kissing Sherlock is pure bliss. He is very well aware that once it's over, he'll have to explain himself and unless he's finally ready to confess he's in love with Sherlock (which he isn't), he doesn't have many options.

As it happens though, the kiss ends abruptly and not of his nor Sherlock's own volition...

“ _Eww, get a room_!” An unpleasant, scornful voice disrupts the atmosphere, forcing Sherlock and John to break apart. John, especially, seems to be aggrieved and perhaps a touch _furious_.

“Mind your own business!” he snarls at once, staring angrily after the obnoxious man that's just swum by. Thankfully, the man takes John's not so friendly advice to heart and briskly disappears, without so much as a sneer.

“Fucking prick,” John growls to himself and only then he looks back at Sherlock. Right... _Sherlock_. John catches him smiling but doesn't let him comment on what's just happened.

“Uhm, _so_ , did it work?” he asks quickly, hoping that if he pretends he kissed him just to _make sure_ they'd get rid of Harrington, Sherlock won't think much of it.

Sherlock seems to be a tad confused though.

“Did _what_ work?”

“Well, err... Is Harrington still watching?”

“Oh,” Sherlock sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and looks away, almost as if disheartened about something, but it's only a split of a moment before he meets John's eyes again. And with a smile on his face, no less.

“No. He walked away. Seemed to be as delighted as the guy with the funny tattoo on his right arm.”

“He... had a tattoo? I was too busy dealing with his rude-ass self to notice.”

“I don't blame you. I'd say something myself but, to be perfectly frank, my brain malfunctioned when you kissed me.”

 _What?_ John blinks rapidly at Sherlock, trying to process this information, but Sherlock is still smiling and doesn't even appear to be too flustered.

“Don't look at me like that John, you know you are a _fantastic_ kisser yourself.”

John can't force a sound out of his mouth, let alone a word. His face feels hot and red and if he saw himself in the mirror now, he'd probably think that he's spent too much time in the sun. In reality, he just can't cope with Sherlock complimenting him.

“You...you aren't saying that _just_ because of what I have put on my blog, are you?” he finally utters after a moment, but the red in his cheek doesn't fade.

“Why would I do that?”

“To make me feel better?”

Sherlock flashes a smirk. “ _John_. If I had to choose between kissing you and solving a _ten..._ I'd choose you.” And with that, Sherlock chuckles and spatters water in John's direction, trying to goad him.

John, however, is floundering. He can but wonder if Sherlock realises that words, in fact, do have an impact and he can't just say something like _that_ and then act like it was just meaningless gibberish. Or maybe he can... he's doing that right now after all and hell, John has to admit that it would probably be for the best if they didn't have that sort of a conversation in the middle of a bloody swimming pool. They're going to have plenty of time once they return to their hotel room...


	10. Chapter 10

By the time John and Sherlock arrive at the suite, the sun has already begun to set. The few hours at the pool was time well spent and afterward, Sherlock took John to the restaurant again and ordered a bowl of spaghetti so big that John would have probably not even finished it if he weren't that ravenous after swimming.

John assumed that after dinner, they'd return to their room and finally have some privacy, and in preparation, he slowly started to gather up the courage to talk to Sherlock. About whatever it is between them and then some. So many times he's told himself that he _shouldn't_ do that, that he should keep bottling up the feelings he has for Sherlock. He's always feared he would lose him if he told him how he _really_ feels but no matter how hard he's tried, he just can't bear to conceal it anymore.

But even though they _did_ return to the hotel room after dinner, John doesn't get to do much other than change and he isn't exactly happy about it. Because Sherlock has decided that tonight of all nights it's a perfect night for going out and have a drink and while John isn't opposed to the idea itself, he really, _really_ needs to talk to Sherlock in private and knows very well that if he doesn't do it _now_ he might as well never...

“Uhm, Sherlock?” John pipes up, but, as it happens, the very moment he opens his mouth, his confidence begins to wane. Sherlock has just come back from the bathroom and was about to head straight for the front door but he stops short when he notices that John is giving him rather a serious look.

“Yes?”

“Well, I... I-” John clears his throat but to no use. His tongue feels heavy and dry and the tremors in his left hand make it only worse. _It's not going to work_. With a deeply frustrated sigh, John hangs his head, taking a pause to compose himself and only then he raises his gaze again.

“I... could use a drink, actually,” he utters with a touch of bitterness to his voice. He feels like a coward and _damn_ if it isn't infuriating.

Sherlock looks him up and down, wondering whether to inquire or not but in the end, he decides against it and gives just a soft smile instead.

“Come on, then. Before the bar gets crammed with people...”

As soon as they enter the little (and rather minimalist) bar on the first floor, Sherlock orders two glasses of tequila and leads John toward a small table with two bar stools. To their relief, the music isn't too loud and most people are busy dancing, so the two of them can enjoy their drinks relatively in peace.

“Better?” Sherlock asks once after John gulps down his drink. John but frowns at the empty glass in his hand and then at Sherlock.

“I think I prefer beer.”

“I _knew_ I should have packed a bottle of your favourite.”

John chuckles. Finally, anxiety seems to be disappearing. But surely not thanks to the tequila.

“I have to say I am surprised you suggested going to a bar in the first place,” John remarks. “It's not exactly your ideal night-out scenario.”

Sherlock shrugs, his thumb absently circling around the rim of his, still full, glass. “You did look like you're in dire need of a drink. I could tell before you said anything.”

“Of course you could,” John chuckles again, then lets out a tired sigh. “You could always read me like an open book. If only you stopped skipping pages...”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, cocking his head to the side. “ _What_ am I missing, John?”

 _God, Sherlock couldn't be more oblivious if he tried,_ John shakes his head, but he allows himself a smile and a giggle. It would be so much easier if Sherlock simply deduced that John's in love with him, but for some inexplicable reason, Sherlock either can't or doesn't want to see it. John doesn't dare to hope anymore that Sherlock could reciprocate his love, but he's reached the point when he _must_ let him know, _somehow_ , _anyhow_ , otherwise, he might as well drown in his repressed emotions.

One thing's for sure though, it has to _wait_. John has just spotted Harrington in the doorway and to say that it has ruined his already miserable mood even more, would be an understatement.

“Err, Sherlock? What do you think of coincidences?” John asks, reducing his voice to a breathless whisper.

“Coincidences don't exist,” Sherlock automatically replies but his brow is furrowed in confusion. “The universe is rarely so lazy. But what does that have to do with anything?”

Jerking his head toward the other side of the room, John points at the bearded man who seems to be indulged in a conversation with two younger women. Sherlock throws a glance over his shoulder, then quickly turns back to John, visibly agitated.

“You have to be kidding me,” he curses under his breath. “This is what I get for offering help to every random that walks into our flat... Is he looking?”

“No. You want to leave?”

Sherlock contemplates for a moment, then reaches for his glass, drinks the tequila down and gestures toward the bar.

“I don't know about you but I'd like one more before we go. Harrington or not.”

“Alright,” John nods, rising up from the chair. “I'll be right back.”

Merely five seconds later after John leaves to order a drink, a tall, tanned man with a hair bun approaches Sherlock. Sherlock can't help but roll his eyes as the man leans on the table and attempts to flirt. He must have been lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right opportunity and that alone makes Sherlock want to throw a drink in his face.

“Hey there,” the man grins from ear to ear, trying to pull off a Spanish accent but failing spectacularly. “Can I get you anything, dove?”

“Patience to deal with annoying people.”

The man laughs. “You're funny.”

“And taken. And you're wasting your time.”

“Name's Marco.”

“Alright, _Marco,_ ” Sherlock scoffs, “what makes you think I care?”

“I have a nose for people.”

Sherlock nearly bursts out laughing but he manages to pull himself together.

“If you think you're going to impress me with a fake name, fake tan, and a _horribly_ fake accent, you're gravely mistaken. Anyway. I'd recommend you to leave before my _boyfriend_ , whom I am _dating_ , comes back,” Sherlock crosses his arms and looks over at the bar.

“Your boyfriend?”

“Why, yes. What part of ' _I am taken_ ' did you not comprehend?”

Right on cue, John returns with two fresh glasses of tequila and a weak smile on his face but as he notices Marco, the smile vanishes at the speed of light and his face twists into a scowl. Whoever that stranger is, his presence immediately awakens the green-eyed monster within John.

“What's going on here?” John asks through gritted teeth, but his voice is almost creepily calm. Putting the glasses on the table, he takes a step toward Marco, who, however, doesn't seem to be intimidated in the slightest.

“Short stuff here is your boyfriend?” Marco sniggers, glaring down at John with utter contempt.

John sniffs, harshly, but he knows better than doing anything stupid. He exchanges a look with Sherlock, then looks back at Marco, smiling angrily.

“Has he been pestering you?” he asks, addressing the words to Sherlock, but his gaze is fixated on Marco.

“I've known him only for two minutes and he's already on the list of my least favourite people.”

Marco huffs indignantly at that. “Geez, who hurt you?”

“ _You_ 're the one who's going to get hurt if you don't leave him alone,” John whispers roughly, a word of warning. He could easily punch all of Marco's teeth out if he wanted to and the man must have sensed that because he no longer appears to be as fearless and confident as he'd wish to. He's practically shrunk under John's murderous stare. And Sherlock... his lips start to spread into a smug smirk at that sight.

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Marco frowns and takes a step backward. John refuses to bother with him anymore, he turns around, grabs Sherlock's hand and points at the exit.

“ _Come on, babe_.”

John doesn't seem to be fully aware of what he's just said. Nor done. He wordlessly leads Sherlock through the mass of dancing bodies, but just before reaching the door Sherlock suddenly breaks the silence between them and brings them both to an abrupt halt.

“That was _hot_.”

John's eyebrows fly impossibly high. He blinks at Sherlock, lost for words... Clearly, he misunderstood. “Oh, _wow_ , you want to go back or something? I thought he was _annoying_ you. Between you and me he didn't even look-”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock attempts to choke back a chuckle but he fails. His voice, however, is as mellow and warm as it could be. “I meant _you_. How you've dealt with that jerk of a guy and called me _babe_ and... took my hand and... you know,” Sherlock smiles with a glint in his eyes.

John's features instantly soften. “Oh...” His heart must be drumming louder than the music, but he doesn't care. He's noticed that Sherlock's breathing faster than usual, his pupils are dilated and his cheeks are coloured dark red. _Is he... aroused_? The possibility makes John's head spin.

“We should... go back to our room,” he hears himself say but doesn't make a move until Sherlock replies.

“Yeah... we _should_.”


	11. Chapter 11

John could swear the elevator's going much slower than usual. _Agonisingly slowly_. He tries to keep his eyes fixed ahead on the door and maintain his distance from Sherlock but to no avail. He can't force his mind to stop thinking of kissing him.

Fortunately, they arrive at their destination before John definitely loses it. Still, the tension in the air is palpable and John's steps are nothing short of hesitant as he and Sherlock walk down the hallway. There's but a few dozens of metres separating them and their suite and John can't for the love of him imagine what happens once they reach it.

As far as he can tell, Sherlock doesn't seem to be exactly composed either. Might be for a whole different reason though...

“I don't mean to alarm you,“ Sherlock half-whispers as they walk further into the dimly lit corridor, “but we're being followed.”

“What? We're being _what_ now?” John's sigh echoes loudly in the empty hallway. He's not in the mood for games. With a frown, he scans the long, narrow room - up and down and right and left - but they seem to be all by themselves.

“Sherlock, there's nobody here.”

“Not yet, no. Harrington left the bar about half a minute after we did and took the other elevator. I estimate he will arrive in approximately ten seconds.”

“Wait, _Harrington_? But why would he-?”

“I suppose he's trying to figure out who the hell the two blokes that have been stalking him for the past few days are. Can't blame him, I guess.”

Just as Sherlock predicted, the ever so familiar chime announces the elevator's arrival. As soon as the door opens, Harrington steps out of the cabin and heads in their direction, his gait rather slow but purposeful. John risks a glance over his shoulder but manages to turn away again before the man catches him looking.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he gulps, lowering his voice to a nervous whisper. “Sherlock, if he starts asking questions, we're screwed. We can't tell him the truth and I doubt he'd be particularly understanding even if we did... Jesus, what if he calls the police?”

“Then we must not let him ask any questions. Keep walking.”

John knits his eyebrows. “And just _how_ do you plan to get rid of him?”

“The good old-fashioned way.” A suggestive smirk plays on Sherlock's lips. “Are you thinking what _I_ am thinking?”

“I highly doubt that,” John chuckles awkwardly but once he notices that Sherlock is gazing longingly at his lips whilst _biting_ down on his own, he very quickly comes to realise that Sherlock _is_ , in fact, thinking exactly the same thoughts...

John holds Sherlock's gaze only for a moment, he _has_ to act now before he is able to change his mind again. Clutching the lapels of Sherlock's shirt, he moves to push him against the nearest wall and locks their lips in the most fervent, passionate kiss. He's been holding back for _so_ long, he couldn't resist for one more second, definitely not when Sherlock's being such a tease.

Almost as if he expected it, Sherlock groans in response and rolls his tongue inside John's mouth, drawing a surprised little whimper out of him. John is vaguely aware that Harrington has come to a stop but to be fair, he couldn't care less to check on him. He's got much more important things to do. When he pulls back it's only because Sherlock has begun mumbling in between kisses.

“The... key card. In my pocket...”

It takes John a second to comprehend. Before he so much as lets out a single word, Sherlock brings him into yet another kiss and clumsily leads him toward their room. As they halt at door number 222, John shoves his hand into Sherlock's trouser pocket, rummaging for the card while Sherlock tries to stifle his moans. Which is practically impossible, seeing as how John's hand moves so dangerously close to his groin.

John, however, doesn't dare to linger. Once he pulls the key card out of Sherlock's pocket, he unlocks the door and without taking a pause to break the kiss, he pushes Sherlock over the threshold.

Kicking the door shut behind them, John expects Sherlock to back away but to his shock, Sherlock does precisely the opposite. At once, Sherlock rushes forward, pins John against the door and presses their lips harder together and hell, John has never in his life been as confused and aroused at the same time but he is not complaining _at all._ His left hand quickly darts to finally, _finally_ grab a handful of Sherlock's hair and tugs firmly enough to spur a reaction from him. Sure enough, Sherlock's hands are instantly on John's hips, pulling their bodies closer as he leans in to kiss down John's neck. _Ecstatic_ , no other word could describe the way John's currently feeling. Letting out a low guttural groan, he tilts his head backward to give Sherlock more access but as he does, somewhere back in his mind he suddenly realises...

“ _Sherl-_ ” he attempts to say but the only sound that leaves his throat is another broken moan. “Sherlock, _wait_...”

This time John manages to utter a few words, prompting Sherlock to pull back but only so far so they can speak.

“We're... still kissing,” John exhales against Sherlock's parted lips, knowing full well that he's not making much sense but he had to say _something_.

Sherlock appears to be bemused because _obviously_ , he's _well_ aware they're still kissing but it takes merely a split of a second and he catches on. And once he does... his face turns the darkest shade of pink. John can't tell whether it's a good sign or not, he but hopes it's not a sign of regret. Well, Sherlock didn't flee yet, so there's that at least.

“Do you... want to stop?” Sherlock asks after a moment of heavy silence, but his voice cracks at the last word, refusing to cooperate any further. Seeking hope and reassurance, he gazes deep into John's eyes, begging not to be rejected. Begging to be kissed again.

And it's about time that John notices...

“And y-you don't?” John stares and stares his eyes out, mouth falling open. He was convinced and have already accepted that Sherlock could never return his feelings or be genuinely attracted to him, to begin with. But as it transpires... he might have been wrong after all. The past couple of days have certainly been a bloody roller-coaster ride and the truth is, John has had enough of ambiguity and uncertainty. He needs to know where he stands. Just a word would suffice. For now. To his relief, Sherlock doesn't make him wait too long for the answer.

“I don't,” Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes dropping to John's lips again. “B-but if you _do_ , we can as well call it a day and forget-”

“Christ, no,” John interjects, reaching to caress Sherlock's cheek with the back of his hand. “No, I don't want to stop.”

A small gasp catches in Sherlock's throat. At once and without hesitation, he leans to close the gap between them and kisses John, _frantically_ , almost desperately.

And this time it's not to create a diversion, nor it's just a part of playing a role. Not that it _ever_ was but up until now they had to keep pretending, they had to act like it meant nothing and was it tiresome and above all - painful. But not anymore. They've got a lot to discuss, yes, nothing has been resolved yet and John knows there's absolutely no avoiding the _serious kind of talk_ after whatever happens tonight but for now... he allows himself to get lost in the moment.

He takes his turn and begins to nip at Sherlock's neck, hastily pushing them both away from the door but they barely make it halfway through the room before John's back collides with another wall. In an instant, Sherlock's lips are on his again, his long, dextrous fingers working fast to unbutton his shirt. Just as the last button slips out and John's shirt falls off his shoulders, Sherlock plants a butterfly peck under his chin, drags his lips along his jawline and blows out a raspy whisper into his ear.

“May I touch you?” he purrs, ever so carefully suckling on John's earlobe.

 _If he may_... John can't but giggle at that question. Turning to face Sherlock, he steals a single kiss from his lips, then takes his left hand and brings it slowly towards his crotch. The mere contact sends a wave of raw pleasure throughout his body, it's almost too much and still not nearly enough at the same time.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John growls, a lascivious moan escaping his mouth. Were he not that turned on, he'd probably feel embarrassed about making such sounds, but that's most certainly the last thing on his mind right now. And seeing what it does to Sherlock... how his breathing quickens and his eyes begin to shine with pure arousal ... _so what_ , even if the entire hotel could hear him.

Encouraged to move his hand, Sherlock begins to palm John through his trousers, _achingly_ gently, reducing John's vocabulary to a cacophony of whimpers and groans. At this rate, they're not even going to make it to the bed... _The bed_. John can feel another surge of pleasure overcome him as he realises how close to having sex with Sherlock he is. Or will be, if he doesn't come into his pants here and now, which isn't completely out of the realm of possibilities considering that Sherlock has just returned to sucking on his neck and his hand is still between his legs.

“Did you forget which way the bedroom is?” John snickers, hoping to goad Sherlock. There's no telling how long he can last and he'd very much prefer their first time _not_ to happen like this. Thankfully enough, Sherlock shares the same mindset. Flashing a dirty smirk, he draws an inch back and pushes John toward the other room. Within a beat, they're kissing again, Sherlock's hands roaming all over John's bare chest and John fumbling with the buttons of Sherlock's shirt while trying not to trip over his own feet. Just before they reach the bed, John turns them over, strips Sherlock's shirt off and lays him down on the mattress.

Once Sherlock nestles himself, John climbs on top of him and straddles his lap, creating the ever so desired friction. Sherlock's back arches at the very first contact, the feeling of John's erection against his own kindling fire in every cell of his body.

“You are _beautiful_ ,” John gasps, gazing at Sherlock in utmost awe. Leaning down, he closes his eyes and presses their foreheads together, breathing in the hot air Sherlock's exhaling.

“And you... are a marvel,” Sherlock pants, searching for John's mouth with his own. There's but an innocent stroke of lips at first, but as Sherlock lets his tongue swirl over John's, things take a whole new turn.

Deepening the kiss, John grips Sherlock's right wrist and pins his arm above his head, while his other hand wanders leisurely down Sherlock's chest. He takes his time, letting his fingers dip into the soft, sun-kissed skin before he drags his hand toward where Sherlock wants it the most.

“God _, yes._ Touch me. _Please,_ ” Sherlock implores and John more than happily obliges. In a few swift motions, he undoes Sherlock's belt and trousers, never breaking the eye contact. Sherlock's mouth falls open in a silent moan as John's fingers tantalisingly slowly slide into his pants, thread through his pubic hair and finally curl around the base of his cock.

The sound that crawls out of Sherlock's throat should be classified as illegal, John thinks as he gives him a couple of strokes. Still, it's not enough, not even close. Withdrawing his hand, he shifts to pull the rest of Sherlock's clothes off and carelessly tosses them on the floor. And as soon as he does, his face turns hot red.

“Did I mention you're beautiful?” John smiles, unable to tear his eyes off Sherlock's gorgeous naked body. He is a masterpiece, the highest form of art. Being allowed to touch him, to kiss him, to make love to him... it's a privilege John couldn't ever dream of having.

Captivated by the sight, John can feel his cock throbbing in his already uncomfortably tight pants. He hurries to unbuckle his belt but Sherlock beats him to it and quickly helps him undress, discarding his clothes onto the pile on the floor. His eyes immediately drop to John's crotch, filled with lust that he is unable to conceal, but he doesn't get to stare for long.

With a shy little chuckle John tackles him down on the mattress again and settles himself on top, their lips several inches apart and limbs tangled. There's but one thing they're both yearning for. Ever so slowly, John begins to roll his hips, rubbing their cocks and making Sherlock moan and writhe uncontrollably beneath him.

“ _John._ Fuck, that feels amazing, I-I-”

John doesn't let him finish and instead kisses him fiercely, swallowing his moan. It shouldn't be that hot, but hearing Sherlock curse (which he only very rarely does) somehow arouses him even more and makes him pick up the pace. Sherlock joins in an instant, wrapping his arms around John's back more tightly and rocking his pelvis even faster. John can feel himself shiver as Sherlock rakes his nails down his spine and reaches between their legs to take both their cocks in his large hand.

“Oh fu- _yes_ , that's... that's _so_ _good_ ,” John growls and covers Sherlock's hand with his own, the pre-come pouring over their fingers and dripping down Sherlock's thighs. Shutting his eyes, John hides his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, trying to savour the feeling for as long as possible but he's _too_ close to the climax and with each next thrust he only gets closer. He bites and kisses along the side of Sherlock's neck and presses their lips together once more, but then Sherlock reaches to grab a hold of his hair and pushes his tongue inside the wet heat of his mouth and John simply can't hold back any longer.

He comes hard, seeing every star in the universe and practically _screaming_ Sherlock's name but he doesn't slow down for a second, not even to catch his breath. Nibbling Sherlock's bottom lip, he keeps stroking his cock until he drives Sherlock toward his orgasm and makes him cry out and come all over himself.

It's not before they share a couple of more sluggish kisses that John flops next to Sherlock and finally allows himself a break. Doesn't look away, though. He tries to think of the right thing to say and he almost does but at once realises that it's perhaps a tad too soon. He's _just_ had sex with the man he loves and needs the most in the world and it was utterly fantastic and that alone is surreal enough and quite difficult to process. John can't confess his love now, the possibility that Sherlock could _still_ reject him despite everything that's just happened terrifies him. He has to be one hundred percent sure that it meant more than a shag to him.

“We've taken it a bit too seriously, don't you think? The whole fake relationship thing,” he chuckles as if to test the waters and pokes Sherlock's arm with his elbow.

Sherlock's lips spread into the giddiest grin. “Oh, definitely,” he giggles, then rolls over John and kisses him. “Whatever happened to you not willing to take it further than kissing?”

“Sherlock...” John sighs, caressing down Sherlock's back and arse. “I was joking, or... attempting to joke anyway, Jesus. I am... _so_ not good at this.”

“Yeah, I know. Me neither,” Sherlock smiles understandingly, blushing ever so little.

“But I think,” he continues, cupping John's cheek with his right hand, his thumb tenderly brushing along the seam of John's lips. “It's time to admit that neither me nor you were... well, _faking_ anything. Right?”

John lets out the heaviest sigh of relief mixed with utter astonishment. _It's not just about sex_. John barely remembers how to breathe, let alone talk.

“Does... does that mean... What does that mean?” He feels like an idiot, struggling to say anything even remotely coherent.

Sherlock titters. “I guess we'll have to figure that out.”

Now that Sherlock single-handedly obliterated even the last remnants of John's doubts, it would be the perfect time to say _'I love you and I always have'_ but as much as John wishes he could, he can't bring himself to. And the worst is, he has no idea _what_ he's still so afraid of. _It would be fine_ , _it's literally just three words,_ he tells himself, but all in vain.

On the bright side, they're in it together from now on. John doesn't have to hide anymore, even if he can't put his feelings into words.

“Yes. Yes, we will,” he murmurs and kisses Sherlock as softly as though his lips were but a fragile petal. But then Sherlock shifts and John extremely quickly realises what a bad idea it would be to cuddle immediately after the kind of messy sex they've just had.

Albeit reluctantly, Sherlock has to get off John and endure the twenty lonely seconds without him while he returns from the bathroom with a couple of wet tissues.

“What is that look supposed to mean?” John laughs as he wipes Sherlock's skin clean. Sherlock's practically devouring him with his eyes and _God_ , that naughty smirk.

“Nothing. I am just wondering... When we'll be able to do that again.”

John grins. “I am not exactly a young chap anymore. But if you keep looking at me like that...” he licks his lips and drops his gaze to Sherlock's lap, his grin growing even wider. “As soon as possible I hope...”


End file.
